I lay on my back beneath her underside,
wings fanning my fear like
six-pack rings around my wrists.
I wonder if she’d let me in, I wondered,
let me hide my sunburn. Would it
be the same in there, all those
pull-down charts where trees jut upwards
like arrows, rows upon
the FTSE index? I saw them
packing their men
like sardines in tin
dismounting the ocean’s surface
to the white halls beneath.
sleep against their notepads etched
with fly swat smears,
reach the nadir of
the exclamation dot,
and dream in all their
How deep to dive to reach her tears?
them marching their men off to war,
16 types of endangered species. I saw
them grab branches with their tomahawk hands,
just to pull themselves ashore.
It’s OK, I’m use to beatings, she said.
I found her again…